Page 98 of No Saint

He didn’t tell me what he had done, how it had happened but I got a call just after midday that confirmed it.

“Miss Doyle?”

“It’s Mrs Saint now,” I correct, noticing the smirk on Gabriel’s face as he sits opposite me pretending not to listen.

“This is Officer Andrews,” His voice is soft, “Officers visited your property in lower Redhill but found it empty, we need you to come into the station.”

I look to Gabriel, he nods, having heard what was said, “When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Gabriel folds the newspaper, legs uncrossing as he leans forward to place it on the table, “You understand the news they are about to give you?”

“Yes.” I answer.

It was surreal. Knowing and hating it for so long only to accept it now.

It wasn’t just because of what he did for me but understanding the reasoning, knowing the man behind the villain.

“Are you ready to leave?” He asks.

“Yes,” I pluck Lincoln from his playpen. Gabriel holds his arms out for him, taking him from me.

“Then let’s go.”

We meet Camille in the foyer and Gabriel hands Lincoln over for her to watch while we do this.

Half an hour later, we pull into an underground parking lot beneath the station and Gabriel keeps his hand on my spine.

The chief meets us, “Mr Saint,” He says, shock on his face before his bloodshot blue eyes slide to me, “Miss Doyle.”

“Mrs Saint.” Gabriel corrects.

“You took a wife?”

His arm slides around my waist. He doesn’t have to say anything for the chief’s face to pale.

“Sir, we spoke of this, what it would mean for her…”

“Hold your tongue, chief, Mrs Saint understands.”

I didn’t, not fully but that was okay.

“You called my wife here, what for?”

“Ah,” he swallows, “Yes, well, there seems to have been an incident.”

The nervousness of the man almost made me feel guilty for the fear he felt with Gabriel’s presence here.

“If you would follow me.”

We do, following the rotund aging man down the long, old hallways of the station towards a family room in the back. He offers us in first, inviting us to sit on aged couches before a worn coffee table.

“Miss Doyle – I mean Mrs Saint,” he swallows, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

I say nothing.

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